


People Like Us

by fishpoets



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Explosions, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Very Very Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 18:09:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9504401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishpoets/pseuds/fishpoets
Summary: Jesse's never much believed in 'happily ever after', but it turns out it might be possible after all, even for a man like him. That is, if life doesn't ruin it for him first.





	

**Author's Note:**

> hope you guys like cheese cos this one's a whole dang platter!

 

McCree skids to a halt, lungs heaving, heart pounding painfully in his throat.

 

Fire explodes over the rooftops. High above him, Hanzo glances over his shoulder, backdropped in smoke and flame; he turns, takes one step, two. Reaches the edge and takes the leap.

 

The archer's a damn billy-goat in the skin of a man, he does these kinds of acrobatics all the time, but the unstable footing makes him wobble on the take-off. He misjudges his trajectory, messes the landing – his right ankle twists awkwardly under him. He falls down to one knee.

 

The building creaks above him.

 

It's like McCree's watching it with his Deadeye. He sees it in slow-motion: plaster cracks and bricks plummet; slabs of concrete and steel beams shudder and shift from their moorings, start to fall; he sees Hanzo, on the ground, starting to get up; he sees the angles, the speed.

 

His limbs are moving before his brain can catch up.

 

Voices shout in his ear; he ignores them. He sprints, single-minded, intent on only one thing – he reaches Hanzo, drags him as far as he can and arcs over him, metal arm above their heads to protect them, the only shield he's got--

 

For a second his eyes meet Hanzo's, wild and raw with fear, before he's caught by the crash and the roar, and darkness swallows him whole.

 

☼ ☼ ☼ 

 

[ _a few weeks earlier..._ ]

 

It's a beautiful day in Ilios.

 

Most days are beautiful in Ilios, to be fair, but this one is especially so; postcard-perfect, a balmy ninety degrees, not a cloud in the cornflower sky.

 

McCree puffs on his cigar, glowering out at the bay from under the brim of his hat. He's not in the mood to appreciate it. There may be no clouds in the sky but it sure feels like there's one hanging over him, stormy and gray.

 

Bells ring out from the church tower, chiming musically over the town. Someone's just got married. McCree's been seeing the wedding party here and there all morning. People dressed up all nice, decked out in jewelry and flowers. Smiling and laughing.

 

The celebration's not doing his mood much good. Sure, he's happy for the couple, whoever they are. He wishes them luck. It's just that recently the very concept of _marriage_ gets him feeling like he's rowed up shit creek and lost his paddle. Antsy and out-of-depth. He's been burning through his smokes at double speed.

 

It's all Genji's fault.

 

Last week marked two years since Jesse and Hanzo became _Jesse-and-Hanzo_ ; or, at least, since they'd sat down and actually _talked_ about the thing they had going on between them. An anniversary of sorts. McCree's not one for tracking dates – he's never had much that don't make him sad to remember – but Hanzo wanted to commemorate it, so they did. A quiet day off-base together, just the two of them.

 

It was what Genji said the next morning that ruined it all.

 

He'd sidled up to Jesse in the mess hall as he was finishing his coffee, practically glowing with mischief. “Good night last night?” he'd chirped, all false innocence. Jesse grunted at him. Then Genji said: “So when's the wedding?”

 

It was a joke. Jesse knows that.

 

Trouble is, he can't stop thinking about it.

 

McCree finishes his cigar, blowing out a plume of smoke. He stubs it out against the wall he's sitting on, brushes the ash from the whitewashed stone, then slides off and drops into the alley below with a jingle of his spurs against the cobbles. He was meant to have finished his patrol a half-hour ago; folks'll be wondering where he's got to.

 

He ponders the question of _The Question_ as he meanders back to the hotel the team's using as a base. They're here to check up on rumors of an omnic-trafficking group moving through the area; a small mission, under the radar, just him and Ana and Zenyatta. It's been quiet – not _too_ quiet, just quiet _._ No signs of anything suspect. Even Zenyatta hasn't drawn any more attention, friendly or otherwise, than he usually does. McCree's been left with more than enough time to think himself in circles about other things.

 

Marriage isn't something he'd ever considered for himself. It never seemed important or even relevant to his life at all. His mama had never been married, so far as he can remember. He never knew his pa. And then he was with the Deadlocks, then Blackwatch, then he was a man on the run – none of which was good for fostering any kind of long-term romance, let alone the kind that led to hitching your lot to someone else's. Who would want to open themselves up to a man who'd led that sort of life?

 

Another man who'd walked the same strange, bloodied path, as it turned out. Who'd've guessed?

 

☼ ☼ ☼

 

Ana and Zenyatta are both already back when he gets to their room. The omnic's sitting in a lotus by the window, with the perfect stillness that means he's deep in meditation, but Ana's alert. She looks up at him from her perch at the table.

 

“You took your time.” She pushes aside the equipment she's tinkering with. “Anything to report?”

 

“Nope, nada.” McCree unbuckles his holster and drops it on his bed. “If you ask me, either our intel's way out of date or was never right to begin with.”

 

“I'm inclined to agree.” Her one dark eye narrows at him as he unfastens his chestplate. “Is that what has you so sour? A wasted trip? I would have thought you'd enjoy the chance for a stress-free vacation.”

 

“Sour? I'm fine.”

 

“Don't play coy with me, boy.” She gets up and walks over, grips him by the scruff on his chin and examines him shrewdly. “Something is troubling you.”

 

Jesse opens his mouth, closes it. He sighs. “I got a few things on my mind, is all.”

 

Her face softens, the switch between soldier and mother. “Missing your man?”

 

He chuckles a bit. “Might be somethin' along those lines, yeah.” He does miss Hanzo, a steady, quiet ache he feels most keenly at night, but it's not like they can't survive apart. Their job separates them sometimes, that's just how things are. They deal. “Um, hey, Ana... I could use some advice, if I may ask.”

 

“Of course.” She pats his cheek. “Any help I can offer I give you freely.”

 

Jesse has a list of things he could ask, a whole host of anxieties he's been picking at all week, doubts he's been feeding 'til they've swollen. Practical questions, most of them.

 

Instead what comes out, weak and plaintive as a child, is, “Are happy endings possible for folk like us?”

 

Ana's eye widens, surprised.

 

“Uh, sorry.” Jesse rubs his face. “Sorry. Geez, that's embarrassing. Forget I said anythin'.”

 

“McCree-” She rests her hand on his arm. “Jesse. What's brought this on? Why do you ask such a thing?”

 

He takes off his hat and drops it on top of his gun, combs his fingers through his tangled hair, tries to push the gnawing whispers of panic into something resembling sense. “Do you ever get to feelin' what you've got is too good to be true? Like something's gotta give sooner or later, and you shouldn't tempt fate by pushin' your luck.”

 

She frowns at him again. “I have done, in the past,” she says slowly. “Come, sit down. Tell me what's on your mind.”

 

Years of being conditioned to military types still hasn't been quite enough to stifle Jesse's lone wolf instincts. Likelihood is there'll always be a part of him that chafes at the idea of making himself vulnerable in front of someone, even if that someone is a woman who's almost been a second mother to him.

 

Losing her felt like losing a mother, that's for sure.

 

Still. He may as well tell her; she's going to find out anyway sooner or later. And Amari has always made him feel safer than most, with her dark eyes and black-coffee voice, the way she took him so effortlessly under her guiding wing when she had every right to look at him as nothing better than the scum on her shoes. He's always seen things more clearly with her around.

 

So he slumps on the end of the bed, laces his fingers together, and admits it. “I've been thinkin' about proposing to Hanzo.”

 

“Ah.” She nods sagely. “And the problem is you don't know if you should, I presume.”

 

“I want to. Can't stop thinkin' about it. But it scares the heck outta me at the same time, y'know? With the kinda lives we lead, I dunno if it would only be settin' the both of us up for heartbreak. Maybe it's greenhorn naïve to hope it might be otherwise.” Jesse rubs the back of his neck. “Hell, the only married couple I've ever really known was the Lacroixs, and look how that turned out.”

 

Ana turns away. She goes back to the table and starts tidying her things. “We are soldiers,” she says, voice carefully distant. “Fighters. People like you and I – and Hanzo, too – we cannot simply walk away from this life, though at times I have wished it were possible. The battle is in our blood, in our souls. If it ever leaves... that is something I do not yet know.” She pauses, then shrugs. “Marriage complicates things. If you're concerned about increased attention or the target it could place on your backs, then don't get married. It seems simple enough.”

 

Jesse presses his lips tight, considering. It's a logical answer. Sensible. A survivor's pragmatism. So why does it hurt?

 

At his silence she turns around and studies his expression. “Not the response you were hoping for.” She sighs, tucking a lock of hair that's fallen over her eyepatch back under her hijab. “The choices we wish to make are not always the ones that are best for us.”

 

“None of us can know with certainty what the future may hold,” another voice cuts in.

 

They both turn to the window. Zenyatta is still sitting serenely in the sun, unmoving, but the lights on his faceplate are now glowing bright with attention.

 

Jesse huffs good-naturedly. “Anyone ever tell you it's rude to eavesdrop?”

 

“One could consider it rude to assume their company cannot understand them.” Zenyatta's voice thrums, amused. “And a special agent ought to know better than to assume he cannot be heard.”

 

“You're a sneaky one, Zenyatta, you know that? You got any words of wisdom for me then, Padre?”

 

The orbs around Zenyatta's neck lift and slowly start to turn. “Your mind is clouded,” he says, tilting his head like he's listening to something beyond Jesse's comprehension. “It is fear of future pain that falters your steps, holding you back from action.”

 

“Maybe,” Jesse concedes, “but with good reason, don't you think?”

 

“Perhaps.” Zenyatta folds his palms together in his lap. “All fears stem from reason. We fear darkness, because in it we cannot see approaching danger. We fear deep water, for it may make us short-circuit, or drown.” He pauses. “It is wise to acknowledge your emotions, to accept them for what they are. But if you are so mired in feeling you cannot see to find your way, it may be wise to step back, to examine the fundamental truths as they are.”

 

“Such as?” Jesse frowns. “You might have to clue me in here, Zen.”

 

“Ask yourself: Will this pain you fear be any less potent, should you choose to remain as you are? After all, emotion is not a binary setting. It cannot be turned off and on at will.” One of Zenyatta's orbs drifts up, shivering with deep purple light. “It is true that you may face hardship or strife. The desire to avoid such things is understandable.” Another orb lifts, this one glowing with gold. “But in avoidance, you lose the beauty, the joy, the harmony of one's soul finding peace with another.” The two orbs circle each other, their beams merging in an endless loop. “You cannot have the one without the other. To avoid loss means losing connection; to embrace connection, means acknowledging its impermanence.”

 

Jesse chuckles. “Bit of a long-winded way to tell me to get my act together, ain't it?" he says.

 

“More succinctly then,” Zenyatta hums. “If you're concerned about opening yourself to the pain that comes of attachment, I fear it may be too late for you already, my friend. I doubt marriage will make much difference, when you are a man already in love.”

 

Heat rushes to Jesse's face.

 

Zenyatta continues. “Do you think it will be worth such pain, should something happen to either one of you?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” Jesse doesn't even need to think about that one. Reality is their lives are dangerous; chances are they won't both make it to old age. But doesn't that mean they should make the most of what they have?

 

“Then it seems your desire has prevailed over your fear.” Zenyatta spreads his hands. “If you wish to propose to Hanzo, and the notion of not doing so upsets you... perhaps you should.” His mala twists and bobs, giving the impression of a grin. “It seems simple enough.”

 

“Sassing an old woman, Zenyatta?” Ana says.

 

He dips his head. “Not at all. Merely borrowing some phrasing for effect.”

 

Ana laughs quietly. “Ah, so wise, for one so young. Perhaps you are right. Jesse, if you are happy, then so am I. You needn't concern yourself with the worries of an old woman. Torbjörn has always managed to balance his duties with his family, after all.” She touches Jesse's arm again. “It's only that losing loved ones always hurts; I don't wish that pain on you. I never have.”

 

Jesse reaches up to touch her hand, gives it a little squeeze. “I know.”

 

She nods, a shade of sorrow in the lines of her face. It goes unsaid, but they both know how her disappearance affected him.

 

“In any case, I suppose it is a good thing.” She smiles at him slyly. “You need someone who can keep you on your toes.”

 

“Right. Great talk.” Jesse claps his hands and gets to his feet, ignoring the blush burning in his ears. “Who's up for some grub?”

 

Ana pinches his cheek as Zenyatta sways with musical laughter.

 

⚭ ⚭ ⚭

 

The page history on his tablet would be incriminating, if anyone cared to stick their nose in his business.

 

Jesse's never considered himself much of a romantic. Give him a high-stakes, long-term infiltration op to plan and he'll be right in his element, but a _proposal?_ Ain't exactly his area of expertise. Not that his and Hanzo's... thing, partnership, romance, whatever you'd call it, has fit the usual mold. Their story's had a touch more violence and bloodshed than Jesse's been led to believe is typical. Fewer coffee dates and flowers and long walks on the beach, more getting to know each other during stakeouts and at hospital bedsides, unexpected heart-to-hearts at godless hours of the night when nightmares have driven them both from sleep.

 

Still, if anyone could make Jesse want to try, it's Hanzo. Both of them could use a little more softness in their lives. If Jesse's going to do this, he wants to do it proper.

 

Which brings him here: trawling through the pages of online jewelry stores, trying to find the perfect ring.

 

Nothing he's found seems right. Hanzo is fussy in his tastes, no matter how much he denies it. He's a man who appreciates quality – despite a well-hidden fondness for the cheap and tacky - but he won't like gaudiness or flash. Enormous diamonds and gemstones are too impractical, and Jesse probably couldn't afford most of them anyhow. Yet on the other hand, a plain metal ring feels impersonal, meaningless. Not fitting for what Jesse wants it to represent, what he would want it to say to Hanzo every time he saw it on his finger; a promise made and returned.  _Thank you for seeing me, for listening, for understanding. Thank you for taking me as I am._

 

..He may be getting ahead of himself. Hanzo's not said yes yet – and he never will if Jesse doesn't figure out how to pop the question.

 

Unfortunately for his sorry self, finding a ring is only half the battle. Finding the right words is even harder.

 

⚭ ⚭ ⚭

 

Brown eyes stare back at him, narrowed, wrinkled in the corners, brows slightly furrowed.

 

Jesse's heart jumps like a jackrabbit.

 

“I've been tryin' to think of the right words to say this,” he starts, “but nothin' comes up to scratch, so – uh. Here goes.

 

“Hanzo Shimada. I'd be lyin' if I said my days ain't been brighter since you walked into my life, with that gorgeous scowl on your face. You're beautiful, sharp as a tack – terrifyin' as all hell. Havin' you at my side makes me feel twice the man I am. So will you make me the happiest cowpoke in the world, and do me the honor of bein' my husband?”

 

The face looking back at him grimaces.

 

“Too cheesy?” Jesse flushes hot, self-conscious. “..Ah, fuck, nah, way too cheesy. Damn it.” He screws his eyes shut and bumps his forehead against the mirror, muttering. “Damn it all, what are you doin', _vaquero?_ ”

 

“Is everything alright?”

 

He jolts, bashing his nose into the mirror. “Hanzo! God, remind me to put a bell on you one o' these days.” He rubs his nose. “But hey, I'm good, honey, how're you?”

 

In the reflection, Hanzo narrows his eyes. “Were you talking to someone?” He peers suspiciously around the tiny bathroom, as if expecting enemies to come jumping out the toilet or slipping from the showerhead. “I thought I heard voices.”

 

“Yeah, that was me.” Jesse runs the faucet and splashes his face with water, hoping it's enough to disguise the flush in his cheeks. “Givin' myself a little pep talk.”

 

Hanzo purses his lips, amused. He passes Jesse the towel to dry his face and steps up behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist and tucking his chin over his shoulder. “A pep talk. What could you need that for, hm?”

 

With his voice rough in Jesse's ear, hot breath on his neck, strong fingers fondling his stomach and a solid wall of muscle against his back, he's very distracting.

 

Jesse slides round in Hanzo's embrace, drapes his arms over those thick shoulders. “Oh, you know,” he says, feigning casualness, “they say it's healthy to big yourself up now and again. Good for the ego.”

 

Hanzo smirks. A hand slips between Jesse's legs and squeezes. “Your _ego_ is big enough as it is.”

 

Jesse gulps as he's kneaded. The tension in him dissolves into tendrils of delicious heat. “Never heard you complain before.”

 

“Who said I was complaining?” Hanzo rubs him slowly, then – because he's a cruel tease – pulls away. “Stay here talking to yourself if you wish, but I had something more entertaining in mind.”

 

Jesse trails after him, besotted, all anxiety forgotten.

 

♢ ♢ ♢

 

“Is this really because of what I said? Jesse, that was a joke.”

 

In the end he swallows what little pride he has remaining, batons down his fear, and goes to ask the only other person in the world who may be able to help.

 

'Course, he forgot – this is _Genji_ he's talking to. He drags his hands down his face and groans. “I know it was. Be straight with me, Gen – this is a terrible idea, ain't it.”

 

“Straight.” Genji hums. “Interesting choice of word.”

 

“Hah hah. Cute.” Jesse sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, buddy, I don't have a clue what I'm doin', here. I looked up how y'all do this sorta thing in Japan, traditions and whatnot, but – Genji, I'm in so over my head.” He peeks between his fingers. “I mean – you're his next of kin, yeah? Do I need to ask your permission, or somethin'?”

 

Genji throws his head back and laughs.

 

“Oh c'mon, don't give me any o' that. I'm havin' a hard enough time here as it is.”

 

Genji dips his head and stops his teasing, though his visor's still bright with amusement. “There are many traditions Hanzo and I would have had to follow had we stayed with the clan," he says, "but we did not. He wouldn't expect such performances from you, nor would he want them, I think.”

 

Jesse makes a noise, dubious.

 

“What is it that truly concerns you, Jesse? You cannot doubt Hanzo's answer, surely. He loves you.”

 

“I know he does.” Jesse squeezes his metal hand with his flesh one. It's playing up today, itching with a phantom ache. “I know. But that don't mean he wants to shack up with me for the rest of his life.”

 

Genji watches him for a minute. “I believe Hanzo will be more receptive to the idea than you fear,” he says quietly, “but I cannot tell you what you should do. I can only say this: I have not seen my brother so at peace since we were children. Whatever you decide, my friend, you have my deepest gratitude.”

 

“Aw, shucks.” Jesse tugs his hat brim down to cover his eyes, feeling the blush in his ears. “You know that ain't on me. Hanzo's worked damn hard to get where he is.”

 

“Yes, he has. Though you cannot deny your companionship has been a great solace to him.”

 

Jesse smiles sheepishly down at his hands. “Maybe. But I weren't being altruistic; it's a two way street. He's helped me, too.”

 

“He makes you happy.”

 

“Oh, you know it.” His voice dips with innuendo. “Dunno if you're aware, but your brother is a mighty fine gentleman.”

 

Genji laughs again. “This is my cue to leave, yes?” He uses Jesse's shoulder to lever himself to his feet then pats him consolingly. “Jesse, if you truly want my advice...” He waits for Jesse to look up at him before he strikes a pose, one hand clasped to his chest, the other outstretched, and sing-songs, “ _Follow your heart~!”_

 

Little shit. Jesse snorts. “Get outta here.” Grinning, he whaps Genji on the leg with the backs of his metal fingers. “Go on, get.”

 

♢ ♢ ♢

 

He mulls on it later, as he watches Hanzo methodically comb out his hair before joining him in bed. It's not bad advice, actually. Maybe he's been thinking too hard about this. He's worrying himself into knots.

 

Maybe he doesn't need speeches and fancy jewelry. Maybe he _should_ just follow his heart. Do what feels right when it feels right.

 

Heck, he could ask now, he thinks, as Hanzo slides under the sheets and curls up close to Jesse's bodyheat. His heart is definitely happy right now, with Hanzo warm and soft, his head pillowed on Jesse's shoulder, breath tickling the hair on his chest. But Hanzo's already falling asleep in his arms. Jesse doesn't want to disturb him.

 

Maybe he'll ask tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

He doesn't get the chance. Life waits for no man, and neither do terrorist groups. They definitely don't wait around for him to get his act together and untangle his hopes from his fears.

 

* * *

 

The ground rumbles beneath McCree's feet. He twists round the corner and dispatches the two grunts on his tail with neat snaps of the trigger, then thumbs the comm in his ear. “Ground's shakin' like a leaf in a storm,” he growls, “the hell's goin' on-”

 

He curses, ducking and throwing his arms over his face as the windows of a nearby building burst outwards in clouds of smoke and searing heat. Glass shards hail down on the road. This area was never re-inhabited after the Crisis; the buildings are old and structurally weak. Nothing to keep them upright. Straight after the first, the next building explodes, then the next, the next – a chain reaction headed right down the street towards him.

 

McCree pivots on his heels and takes off running, spurs ringing like frantic bells above the noise of the carnage behind him. He almost wishes he was wearing his old supple Blackwatch combat boots. If he gets out of this with his life he's gonna have blisters, and that's just _annoying_.

 

 _“Agents!"_ Winston barks gruff in his ear. _"Athena's detected explosives – the whole area's rigged to blow. Fall back now, quickly!”_

 

McCree snorts, gasping as he runs. “Explosives?! You don't say!”

 

“ _McCree,”_ Tracer pipes, her usual cheeriness turned sharp and urgent: _“do you have a visual on Hanzo? I lost sight of him after the first explosion.”_

 

McCree skids to a halt, lungs heaving, heart pounding painfully in his throat. He looks up, scanning quickly over the roofs where Hanzo has been holding position, watching over him, keeping him safe. A flicker catches his eye: Hanzo's gold scarf, burnished bronze in the fiery light.

 

“Yeah I see him. Roof of the parking garage. I'm holdin' back for him.” He taps the comm anxiously. “Hanzo, you read me? Come in, Hanzo-”

 

Fire explodes over the rooftops. Hanzo takes a flying leap.

 

➳ ➳ ➳

 

Surrounded by thick, cloying darkness, it takes him a while to realise he's not actually dead. There's a pebble in his boot. Too much of an irritation to be there if he was in Heaven, and if he'd gone to the other place, well. Surely the Devil would have more in store for ol' Jesse McCree than putting stones in his shoes.

 

Something bumps his chestplate and pats up to his face. A hand.

 

“Jesse?”

 

The sound makes Jesse almost delirious with relief. _Hanzo's alive_. Bless all his stars and the sun and the moon up above.

 

“ _C_ _hikushō_ – Jesse, answer me.”

 

He coughs, blinking dust from his eyes. “Howdy, partner.” His throat is sore. “Fancy meeting you in a place like this.”

 

The hand against his cheek tenses, fingers clenching into his scruff, then relaxes. Jesse hears a heavy sigh from somewhere below him.

 

“I see you are well enough to make jokes.” He sounds annoyed. Jesse grins into the blackness. “That is reassuring, I suppose.”

 

“I do it all for you, sugar,” Jesse quips. “...You all right down there?”

 

“I am fine.” Another sigh. “My ankle is injured, but nothing else.”

 

“Yeah, I saw that. Looked nasty. Sprained or broken?”

 

“Sprained, I believe, though it is hard to determine without examining it.” The hand pats carefully at his cheek again. “And yourself?”

 

Jesse's stooped over and contorted at a weird angle, and he'll have bruises all over come tomorrow, he's sure, but by some grace or miracle he's all in one piece. He thinks. His left arm is still raised above his head, and he can't feel it.

 

“Mn. Think my arm's stuck. Hold on a sec.” He tugs. The resulting sound makes his bones ring with fear; a sick, crunching grind, mixed with the sharp screech of metal against metal that sends shivers up his spine. Something shifts in the rubble.

 

The hand by his face grabs at his serape. “Whatever you're doing, stop it immediately,” Hanzo snaps.

 

“I'm stoppin', I'm stoppin'! Don't gotta tell me twice.” Jesse lifts his free hand to Hanzo's and squeezes it for a moment. He sucks at his teeth. Welp, this is a pretty pickle they've found themselves in, that's for sure, but at least they're both alive.

 

They've just got to keep themselves that way. He reaches up to his ear, but finds nothing.

 

“Shoot – lost my communicator. You got a signal on yours, honey?”

 

Hanzo's hand drops from Jesse's clothing. There's silence for a moment, then Hanzo says something in rapid-fire Japanese, too fast for Jesse to follow. Must've gotten through to Genji, at least.

 

After a minute or so of back-and-forth, he stops with another deep sigh. His metal heels scrape against the floor.

 

“What's the word?” Jesse asks.

 

“They know where we are,” Hanzo says, sounding tired. “Tracer saw what happened. They are making sure the area is secure before they send in a rescue team.”

 

Jesse smiles to himself. These days, with the Petras Act lifted, a 'rescue team' might actually mean the local emergency services. But it's just as likely to be a tag-team of Reinhardt and Zarya, primed for some heavy lifting.

 

“Alright, could be worse. Just gotta keep ourselves entertained 'til then, huh. Hope they don't take too long.” He sniffs, scrunches his nose against the tickle of dust. “You think we're okay for air?”

 

Hanzo hums. “Yes.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“I can feel a breeze from somewhere.”

 

“Right.” That's good news. “How about gas, you smell any?”

 

He hears Hanzo sniff. “No. Gas? No one uses fossil fuels anymore.”

 

“Never know in these old towns. Could be old pipework anywhere.” Jesse starts feeling for his pockets. “I'm gonna get my lighter out, mind your eyes.”

 

The flame flares up, warm and comforting – almost as comforting as the sight of Hanzo's face peering up at him, the firelight dancing in his dark eyes.

 

Jesse falls in love all over again. “Hey, handsome.”

 

Hanzo rolls his eyes and looks up past Jesse's shoulder.

 

Jesse follows his gaze. His metal hand is stuck between a fallen girder and a block of concrete, completely crushed and mangled from the wrist down. A large metal spike protrudes through the forearm. Jesse gulps. The whole thing had crashed to a halt a mere inch or two above his head.

 

Hanzo frowns at the ruins of his arm. “Can you free it?”

 

“Maybe, but I'm not fixin' to try. Might be the one thing holdin' all this up.” Jesse can see bits glinting on the ground, scraps of broken metal and cybernetics. “Not sure it's worth it anyhow. Thing's in pieces.” He taps at the join above his elbow. “I'm gonna take it off though. You mind helpin' me, sweetheart?”

 

Jesse holds the lighter steady as Hanzo reaches up and undoes the tiny latches that seal Jesse's prosthetic to the stump of his arm. Jesse eases it off, wincing through the shriek of his nerves as the endings detach from the cybernetics. Freed, he looks about; they're trapped in a small space, a jagged, roughly oval hollow in the wreckage, shorter than Hanzo is tall and with just enough headroom to crouch. Hanzo sinks back down next to his bow and fiddles with the catch of his right boot, sliding it off. His ankle is starting to swell, the skin blossoming with dark bruises.

 

Jesse takes off his hat and lowers himself carefully to the floor next to him. He whistles through his teeth. “Talk about a lucky break, huh? D'you think we can--”

 

Hanzo whacks him on the thigh.

 

“You are a _fool_ , Jesse McCree!”

 

“Wha- What'd I do now?” Jesse protests, rubbing his leg. “Oh, that's right – I only saved your life. You're welcome, by the way.”

 

“I had it under control,” Hanzo hisses. “There was enough time for me to move. You running in, trying to be a hero was nothing but a distraction-”

 

Jesse huffs. “You weren't goin' nowhere, not on that ankle. Trust me, darlin', you couldn't see it like I did, and from what I saw, you would'a been squished like a bug--”

 

“So you thought to squash yourself, as well?”

 

“What was I supposed to do? Just let it fall on you?”

 

“Yes!” Hanzo spits daggers at him, breathing hard. “Yes, that is what you should have done! Instead you leap in before you think – what if you had misjudged? What if you were not so damnably lucky? Overwatch would have lost two agents instead of one. Your impulsion could have compromised the entire mission, for no gain at all-”

 

“Damn the mission!” Jesse growls, needled and upset. “You think that's what's most important here? Nevermind that the payload was already secured--”

 

“-And what of after?” Hanzo barrels over him, bristling. “You are one of our best fighters – one of our _best--”_ He draws in a ragged breath. “Do you think the others would recover from your loss so easily? You were safe. You should have stayed _safe_. It wasn't worth the risk to come back. But of course you didn't listen to reason, you reckless, stubborn--”

 

“I lost enough family!”

 

Hanzo falls silent.

 

Jesse takes a deep breath, loses it on a shuddering exhale. “I lost enough family,” he repeats, quieter but rough with emotion. “I ain't ready to lose no more. And y'see, Hanzo, to me, you're worth _every_ risk. So you're damn right I came back for you.” The lighter flame quivers gently between them. Jesse feels his pulse subside, anger draining out of him as swiftly as it had built. “Do me a favor, darlin' – don't you ever ask me not to again, all right? 'Cause it ain't gonna happen. I ain't ever gonna leave you behind, you got that?”

 

Hanzo stares at him for a minute, wide-eyed through the flickering gloom.

 

“..All right,” he breathes.

 

Jesse tilts his head and raises an eyebrow at him. “Y'ain't gonna fight me on this?”

 

“I was, but,” Hanzo leans back, glances up at the wreckage above their heads, “then I thought, had our positions been reversed...”

 

_I would have done the same for you._

 

He doesn't need to say it. Jesse smiles at him, wobbling on a warm little bubble of affection.

 

“See, I knew you liked me.”

 

Hanzo snorts softly, lips quirked. “Don't flatter yourself.”

 

“Too late for that.” Jesse shifts over gingerly and drapes his good arm round Hanzo's shoulders, flicking off the lighter so he doesn't set fire to Hanzo's ponytail. “I've found you out. You're stuck with me now.” He leans down and buries his nose into his partner's lovely hair, breathes him in. Beneath the layers of grime, sweat and brick dust he still smells wonderful, like laundered sheets and incense and his fancy shampoo. Musk-sweet and delicious. Jesse presses his lips to Hanzo's temple.

 

Hanzo makes a small noise and tilts his head to give Jesse more room. “There are worse fates, I suppose,” he sighs, as Jesse dots the side of his face with kisses. With each one he relaxes under Jesse's arm, until he's melted against his side.

 

The minutes pass. Gradually Jesse's eyes adjust to the dark. Dust motes float and shimmer in the faint light filtering in down by their feet. A noise rattles somewhere outside their prison but he can't make it out over the sound of their breathing together.

 

“I am sorry,” Hanzo murmurs.

 

“Mm? For what?”

 

“Berating you. And thank you, for saving my life.”

 

Jesse chuckles. “You're very welcome, my darlin'.” He drops another kiss to Hanzo's hair. “And I forgive you.”

 

The word gets the reaction he thought it would. Hanzo's shoulders hitch under his arm. He presses closer into Jesse's side, winds his right arm around his stomach.

 

“I gave you a fright, didn't I? Rushin' in like I did.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Then I'm sorry too, sweetheart.”

 

Hanzo's arm tightens around his waist. “You are forgiven.”

 

Jesse gets swept along on the familiar wave of emotion. The old survivor in him examines himself with quiet bemusement. Here he is, down a limb, trapped in the rubble of a fallen building which may collapse on him at any moment, and yet he's more preoccupied with the man snuggled against him. The danger simply don't feel so bad with Hanzo by his side.

 

Two years of this and it still takes his breath away sometimes, the knowledge he always has someone watching his back. If he's lucky, he could spend the rest of his life without ever having to go it alone again.

 

He gathers Hanzo close. Nudging his hair aside with the tip of his nose, he whispers into his ear: _“_ _Cásate_ _conmigo._ ”

 

Hanzo's Spanish is getting pretty good, but there's still a lot he doesn't catch, especially if he's not paying attention.

 

“Hm?” He stirs. “What was that?”

 

“Nothin',” Jesse says on reflex, then curses himself for his own cowardice. “Say, Hanzo, I got a question for you.”

 

“Yes?” Hanzo sits up straighter, so he can look Jesse in the face.

 

Is it hot down here or is it just him? He's sweating, and having Hanzo's focus on him ain't helping. But if he doesn't ask now... knowing their lives, he may never get the chance again. “How'd you feel about, y'know.” He waves his hand, gesturing vaguely over Hanzo's shoulder at the both of them. “Makin' this official.”

 

Hanzo makes a face, pursing his lips like he does when he thinks Jesse's said something odd but he's amused by it anyway. “I think everyone already knows, Jesse,” he says, smirking. “It is hardly a secret. Besides, we are fully sanctioned under Overwatch's rules on fraternization, such as they are. I checked.”

 

Jesse didn't even know there _were_ rules about this – but that's not the point. He shakes his head. “Naw, I – I didn't mean makin' it official to the _team._ ” Lightheaded. Not enough air. “What I meant was – uh.” He clears his throat. “Y'know. This. Us. Bein' stuck with each other.” He draws in a shaky breath. “Bein' a _family_. Makin' that official.”

 

Hanzo looks at him blankly.

 

“God damn it-” Why's the man picked now of all times to turn slow on the uptake? Jesse twists round to face him and grabs both his hands to hold in his one. “Hanzo.” He looks him right in the eye.

 

“I'm askin' if you'll marry me.”

 

Hanzo stares. He turns his head and laughs, tight and strained, incredulous.

 

Jesse sits like a stone, unmoving.

 

The laughter stops abruptly. “You're serious.”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I'm serious.”

 

Hanzo drops his gaze to their hands, held loosely together in his lap.

 

“I... I was not expecting...”

 

Jesse swallows, mouth dry. “I've been thinking 'bout this for a while now. Guess it felt the right time to say it.”

 

“The right time,” Hanzo says flatly. “Here, trapped in the dark, when I'm in pain, and the roof may cave in on us at any second.”

 

“Forgive me if I didn't feel like wastin' time after I almost had to watch you die.” Jesse retorts, defensive. He can't quite keep the tremor from his voice. “I'll ask again proper when we get out, if you want me to. Put on a suit and tie, gussy up all nice, get down on one knee, the whole works.”

 

Hanzo doesn't seem to be listening. “How would such a thing even work for us?” he mutters. “Overwatch may no longer be criminalised, but we both have our pasts. Any legal ties between our names could prove dangerous – and that's assuming such a union would even be valid in the first place--”

 

“Why wouldn't it be?” Jesse squeezes his hand. “Look, you know me. I don't believe in fairytales. I've given this a lot o' thought, and I'm not pretendin' it'll all be plain-sailing. Hell, nothing we have has come easy so far, but I'd say it's been worth it, wouldn't you?” He licks his cracked lips. “'Sides, it's the sentiment that matters, ain't it? 'Specially for people like us.”

 

Hanzo sits silently. His hands are tense and unmoving around Jesse's own – though he has not let go.

 

He opens his mouth, then jolts with surprise and lifts one hand to his ear. “Yes,” he says, but his face is turned away. He's talking to whoever's on the comm, not to Jesse. “That's correct. ..Yes, Agent McCree is also here. I'm going to put you on speaker, Symmetra.”

 

He tugs the comm from his ear and holds it between them. Satya's cool, crisp voice demands attention even through the tinny sound of the tiny speakers.

 

“Agents, the fallen structure is unstable,” she informs them briskly, straight to business. “We cannot attempt to remove the rubble to dig you out without risking its collapse.”

 

“Well that's wonderful news,” Jesse mutters. Hanzo throws him a warning glance.

 

“However, there may be another way to retrieve you,” Satya continues, either not noticing or choosing to ignore Jesse's sarcasm.

 

“How?” Hanzo asks.

 

“You are at ground level, correct?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I have the exact location of your communicator, Agent Hanzo. Do you still have the device I gave you?”

 

Hanzo reaches into one of the pouches on his belt and pulls out a small round object, about an inch in diameter. “I do.”

 

“It's an experimental prototype I've been working on. Connect it to the communicator. It will transform it into a teleportation device I can sync remotely with my own. I will create an exit outside the wreckage.”

 

“Experimental, you say.”

 

“Indeed.” A sharp pause, then she adds, “I would not have allowed it outside of my lab if I had any doubts regarding its safety.”

 

“Very well.” Hanzo snaps the device into place around the communicator. “It's fitted. Now what?”

 

“Press the button on the side and wait. I will respond promptly.”

 

Symmetra cuts out. Hanzo puts the device down by their feet and presses the button. Three small arms extend from the device and start to whir.

 

They wait in tense silence. Sure enough, after a minute the teleporter winks into existence, thrumming with energy, filling the narrow space of their prison with blue light. Similar to the ones Jesse's used to, but smaller, rounder, less defined in shape. The edges flicker unnervingly.

 

“Step into the unknown,” Jesse murmurs. Above them the rubble shifts. Dust flurries down on their heads. He puts his hand on the small of Hanzo's back and nudges him towards the glow. “After you, honey.”

 

Hanzo passes his bow through the teleporter before he crawls through himself and disappears. Jesse takes a deep breath and follows.

 

➳ ➳ ➳

 

The state of his arm is more sobering under the bright lights of Torbjörn's workshop. The pieces that could be dug out from the rubble have been recovered; seeing them laid out on the low workbench makes a leaden lump sink in Jesse's stomach. It was such a close call. Any closer and it could have been his head in pieces like this – or worse, Hanzo's.

 

His old prosthetic hand is completely crushed, almost unrecognizable except for the color of the metal. As for the forearm, it now bears a large, jagged hole, right through the center of the decorative skull. The sight of it sends shivers down Jesse's spine. He's glad he opted not to have pain receptors fitted when the prosthetic was first made. Being able to really _feel_ wounds like that would have hurt like... well, like it had when he lost the arm in the first place.

 

Torbjörn rattles a box of scraps. “Gonna take a while to fix this,” he says, his bushy mustache bunched in a frown. “Might be easier to start from scratch. Piece of junk saved your life, though.”

 

“Yeah. I appreciate your help, Torby.”

 

“I'll let ye know when we've made progress. Don't bother me about it 'til then.”

 

“Sure, sure." Jesse shuffles his feet. He's not quite ready to leave, not ready yet to face the inevitable. "But hey, while I'm here, how's the family? Haven't heard about them in a while.”

 

The man brightens. “Oh, aye, they're all doin' well,” he says, putting the box down on the workbench and propping his arm on the lid of it. “Not much news to tell, honestly."

 

"Any new grandkids?"

 

"Not yet," Torbjörn chuckles, "but the twins are settling in to their new school, and our youngest grandson's already talking, if you can believe it. Ingrid's managing it all expertly as usual, despite how busy I'm kept by this place.”

 

Jesse leans his hip against the wall, smiling. “I only met her the once, but she struck me as a hell of a woman.”

 

Torbjörn's smile softens. “Aye, that she is.”

 

“How long've the two o' you been married, now?”

 

“Thirty three years this March.”

 

Jesse whistles. Torbjörn huffs, shaking his claw at him. “I know what you're thinkin'. How'd a grumpy old sod like me manage that, eh? Well, simple answer is I found a friend, and she stuck by me all these years, even with all my faults, lucky fool that I am.” He rumbles a self-conscious cough and peers up at Jesse. “Some reason you're askin'?”

 

“Naw, just curious.”

 

The old man grunts, waving him off. “Well, anyway, away with ye. I got work to do.”

 

♡ ♡ ♡

 

Dejected, Jesse trudges back to the dorms. _Thirty three years_. There was a time he'd have laughed at the idea of even getting to live that long, especially with someone else. Nowadays though, with Hanzo, he can imagine it easily. If his blundering today hasn't managed to mess everything up. It's been hours since the explosion, more than enough time for the doubts to settle in with a vengeance. Since they returned and were both shuffled into medbay, Jesse hasn't seen hide nor hair of Hanzo at all.

 

Will Hanzo even come to bed tonight? Not likely. Chances are he'll stay with Genji – if he doesn't decide to skip sleep altogether.

 

By the time Jesse gets to their room and thumbs in the code he's worked himself into a stew. The door slides open.

 

Empty. A cold knot tightens in his throat. He closes the door behind him and slumps on the bed.

 

“I was wondering when you were going to return.”

 

Jesse jerks his head up. Looking down at his feet, distracted by his own misery, he hadn't noticed Hanzo standing quietly in the dark doorway of the bathroom until he spoke.

 

Hanzo bites the inside of his lips. He's fiddling with something small, turning it over and over between his fingers. “I thought perhaps you had decided to sleep elsewhere tonight.”

 

“Nah, I – I was down in Torbjörn's shop.” Jesse wiggles his stump. “He's givin' me a hand with my hand.”

 

The joke falls flat. Hanzo's forehead creases. “Jesse...”

 

Jesse busies himself with pulling off his boots so he doesn't have to look at Hanzo's uncertain expression. It's difficult one-handed but he manages. He pulls off his socks too, and sure enough there's a blister, red and sore on the side of his foot. “Kinda just wanna sleep right now, sweetheart,” he says tiredly, frowning at the blister. "It's been a rough day.”

 

In his periphery he sees Hanzo shift. “You asked a question; I owe you a response.”

 

“Maybe it's best we forget about it.”

 

“No, I don't think so.” Hanzo limps over and sits on the bed next to him. He puts his hand on Jesse's knee. “I want to talk about this.”

 

Jesse glances down at the coils of his tattoo. The dragon on his wrist bares its teeth at him.

 

“I was... surprised, when you asked,” Hanzo says slowly. “I did not think marriage was something you were interested in.”

 

Jesse readies himself to be scraped raw. “Neither did I, to be honest with you. I never planned to be married.” He brushes his thumb over the dragon's scales, tracing the pattern he's come to know as well as his own skin. “But then I never thought I'd find myself in a relationship like this, with someone like you.”

 

“This isn't where I imagined my life taking me either,” Hanzo says, “though I cannot say I'm not... No.” He shakes his head and sits up straighter. “I _am_ glad. Grateful. To be here, to have you-” he cuts off, voice thick.

 

“Tell me no and I won't bring it up again.” Jesse trails his hand down Hanzo's arm and twines their fingers together. “I just wanna be with you, sweetheart. This is more than enough as it is.”

 

“What I said before wasn't a refusal. I wasn't spurning you.” Hanzo squeezes Jesse's leg. “I have considered the possibility myself, a few times.”

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

Hanzo turns Jesse's hand over and places the thing he'd been fiddling with into his palm. A circle of familiar dull-gray metal, edges beaten and smoothed.

 

“This is...”

 

“From your hand, yes.”

 

Jesse turns it over, examining it. It _is_ from his broken prosthetic; a piece from one of his finger joints, refashioned into a ring.

 

“You had no ring, earlier, so I borrowed Mei's tools,” Hanzo explains nervously. He tucks a strand of loose hair behind his ear. “Circumstances were against you before. I thought you deserved another chance.”

 

“You want me to ask again?” Jesse asks, heart in his throat.

 

“Unless you have changed your mind.”

 

Jesse shakes his head, wordless.

 

“Do it, then.” His voice is tinged with a quiver, excitement or apprehension or both. Hard to say. “Ask me.” He looks at Jesse expectantly. “Or must I do so myself?”

 

Jesse squirms, hot and self-conscious. “Honey...”

 

Hanzo's grip tightens on his leg. His eyes grow determined.

 

“Jesse McCree,” he says lowly, “will you-”

 

Jesse claps his hand over his mouth. “Whoa, whoa, hold your horses! I've been workin' myself up for weeks over this, don't you go stealin' my thunder!”

 

Hanzo bats his hand away. “Get on with it, then.”

 

He pushes at Jesse's thigh until he slides off the bed. Jesse kneels between his feet. He has to hide his face against Hanzo's thigh for a moment so he doesn't laugh, giddy and overwhelmed. The fabric of Hanzo's hakama is soft on his cheek. Hanzo scratches his blunt nails gently through his hair.

 

Confidence settles in Jesse's chest. “Right.” He looks up.

 

Hanzo's eyes are shining. He's all bruised up, with a scrape scabbing over on his cheek, his ankle in a cast and grey in his hair, dark circles under his eyes – and he's the most beautiful sight Jesse's ever seen.

 

He's looking down at Jesse like he's thinking the exact same thing.

 

Jesse melts. “Hanzo,” he sighs happily, “oh, Hanzo, honeybee, we've been through a lot together, haven't we?”

 

“Yes, we have.”

 

“A hell of a lot. I'm a lucky man, havin' you as my partner. There's no one I'd want more watchin' my back.” Jesse holds up the ring. “Will you look out for this old dog for the rest of his days?”

 

Hanzo's smile grows wide and wobbly. A tear overflows and slips down his cheek. He takes Jesse's hand and presses their foreheads together, chuckling low in his throat.

 

Jesse bumps their noses together. “What's funny now, huh?”

 

“It occurred to me what the clan elders would think, if they could see me now. How they'd react to having a cowboy on the... what do you call it. The family tree.”

 

“What, they wouldn't approve?” Jesse grins. “How about havin' the quickest draw in the West, how's that sound?”

 

Hanzo cups his palms over Jesse's cheeks and pulls him in for a deep, slow kiss.

 

Jesse hums into his lips, pulls back a bit. “S' that a--”

 

“Yes.” Hanzo kisses him again. “Yes. _Yes._ ”

 

♡ ♡ ♡

 

Jesse's new prosthetic looks almost identical to his last. It works better, no doubt – new-and-improved cybernetics, courtesy of Ms Vaswani, have seen to that – so it's smoother and more responsive, but still has the pleasing weight and heft of his old. Up on the cliffs above the Watchpoint, looking out over the bay, Jesse twists his arm in the afternoon sun, admiring the sheen of its fresh, shining surface. Not yet touched by the dents and scratches of combat, not yet dulled by time. It'll feel more comfortable, more like _his_ when it's taken a few hits.

 

All of this pales into insignificance next to one small detail, the only change that really matters. The first section of the ring finger is different from the others, the metal slightly raised and inlaid with a pattern. It glows vibrant in the sunlight: a tiny dragon circling his finger, its scales and fur a bright, rich gold, the same color as the scarf his husband is wearing in his hair.

 

“You realize I was only joking when I suggested this," Hanzo says from his side. "I did not expect you to get so taken with the idea.” He reaches for Jesse's hand, turns it over, rubs his thumb over the dragon.

 

“Fitting though, ain't it?” Jesse wraps his arm around Hanzo's stomach, draws him back against his chest. His voice dips.“There I was, mindin' my own business, when along came a dragon, and ate me right up.”

 

Hanzo shakes his head and laughs. “You're terrible.”

 

Jesse kisses his hair, his ear, his cheek. “You still married me, though.”

 

“Yes, I did.” Hanzo lays his arm over Jesse's and threads their fingers together. The gray ring clinks against the gold. “I did.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Genji teases them relentlessly when they announce their engagement, but at the wedding he's the one who cries the most


End file.
